


in sickness and in health

by poisonrationalitie



Series: Harry Potter Expanded Universe [22]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 21:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonrationalitie/pseuds/poisonrationalitie
Summary: When Daphne falls ill, it is up to Tracey to take care of her. Maybe Tracey gets more from it than she'd like to admit. /For 'Hogwarts Assignment #4 First Aid Task 7'. X-posted from fanfiction.net





	in sickness and in health

Tracey had never played Healer before. Her father had never been one for tenderness, and she was an only child with a mother long dead. Nor had anybody played nurse to her; she was expected to get over it. Purebloods weren’t weak. Even when she’d had dragonpox, she’d been primarily left to her own devices until she was on death’s very door and her father had dumped her at St. Mungo’s.

Daphne, however, was very used to being taken care of. Her mother had never worked due to the delicate health of Daphne’s little sister, and they had every potion available on hand. That wasn’t the case for Tracey and Daphne as they lived now. Their spacious flat was courtesy of the Greengrass family, but the rest they purchased themselves. Daphne refused to go to her parents for help - using the family fortune was one thing, but using their house-elves was another. And so, Tracey was left to be Healer. 

“I’m sorry,” Tracey said, sitting on the edge of Daphne’s bed. “I should’ve listened.”

“Yes,” Daphne croaked. “You should’ve. I told you I felt ill.” Dark strands of hair were stuck to her forehead with sweat. Tracey flicked her wand, murmuring a spell. Soon enough, a cloth was in hand. 

“ _ Aguamenti,”  _ said Tracey, wetting it. She wrapped her hands around the cloth and squeezed tightly. Water dripped onto the plush carpet.  _ Shit.  _ She’d never been good with cleaning spells. 

She dabbed the cloth onto Daphne’s forehead. Her rosebud lips fluttered, and Tracey had to look away. She swallowed hard. Turned back. Dabbed again.

“It’s too wet,” Daphne whispered. “You’re going to get me drenched.”

“Shut up, Daph,” Tracey said, gritting her teeth. “Or I’ll wring it out down your shirt.” 

In truth, she was frightened she was going to tear Daphne’s soft skin off with the coarse cloth. Tracey’s skin was marked, she believed, hands blistered, ridges of scars across her arms and thighs. Daphne’s was gentle and smooth. She’d been the only girl in their dormitory not to get pimples, and from time to time she’d certainly gloated.

“How do you feel?” Tracey asked, moving the cloth away. “Headachey? Stomach pains?”

“Horrid,” said Daphne, scrunching her nose. Tracey brushed some of her hair off her face, careful to not let her touch linger. “Too hot. Cold charm..”

Tracey raised her wand and stood, slowly walking around the perimeter of the room. A ripple of blue light trailed behind her, icy to touch. The hairs on her arm stood up. Daphne groaned, and the bed creaked. Tracey looked over her shoulder, and saw that Daphne had kicked the blankets off. “You’ll make it worse,” Tracey grumbled. 

“It’s too hot,” Daphne said again, propping herself up on her elbows. She was as pale as death, especially with the sheet of dark hair framing her face. Tracey wanted to convince herself it was just the lack of makeup. Daphne was the sort of girl to wear make-up at all times, and had only permitted Tracey to wash it off when the sweat began to make it run, threatening her exquisitely embroidered, custom-made pyjamas. 

Tracey finished casting the charm, and sat back on the bed. For a moment, she hesitated. Goosebumps were rising on her legs. Would it be too presumptuous? Daphne ought to have the blankets instead of her. She was the sick one. 

“The pepperup potion should be ready soon,” Tracey said. “Maybe that will help.”

“Cooling charm?” Daphne asked, tossing her head. Her eyes were pale and glassy. Never in all their years living together had Tracey seen her like this. Daphne had always been in great health, glowing, vibrant.

“I did one, okay?” Tracey said. “You’re a fusspot.”

“I’m sick.”

“I’m cold.” Tracey grabbed a blanket and pulled it up around her. It made her feel better, to have another barrier between her and Daphne. They were both on the bed together, and it was weird. Even in the dorms, the girls never touched each other’s beds. They’d sit together in the common room or even on the floor, but never on one girl’s bed. They had been sacred spaces. Tracey was very aware that Daphne slept in this bed, and that the pillows smelt like jasmine, and that there were stray dark hairs on the blanket she held. 

“It’s gross,” Daphne said. “Sweat all over it.” She tugged on the blanket. Tracey knew all too well the subtle ways pureblood girls were taught to say ‘fuck off’, and dropped the blanket, uncertain if this was one of those times. 

“I’ll get the potion,” she said, almost fleeing on the room, her skin burning where the blanket had touched her. Maybe  _ she  _ was the feverish one. In the potions room she bottled the solution, fingers trembling.  _ You’re so stupid,  _ she told herself,  _ you’re an idiot.  _

It had been a perfectly normal scenario, them living together. Friends from school, both single women, eager to gain some independence. Nothing suspect in that. When one of them was married, the other would presumably have enough money to support themselves. It was what many modern pureblooded women did. It was preferable to staying under the thumb of their parents until marriage. 

Maybe this was all just Tracey getting confused; she was hardly familiar with how affection worked. Maybe this was just friendship. Maybe this was just closeness. Maybe the flutterings in her chest were normal when she caught the scent of jasmine. Friendly touch, touch not rooted in anger or drunkenness was unfamiliar territory. Even her own touch was more often than not in contempt of herself; she did not caress her body or pat her skin, but pinched and pulled and tugged and pushed. 

Healing was unfamiliar to Tracey. She’d never been to St. Mungo’s for herself, and seldom for others. She didn’t let the scabs heal; she was a picker. Wounds healed quicker with no interference, but Tracey spent her self-control on everything else. It wasn’t as though she deserved to heal.

She re-entered Daphne’s bedroom, and held out the potion. “It should be okay. I followed the instructions.” Of the two of them, Daphne had always been better with potion-making. She took it gently, and drained it with slow, delicate sips. Tracey knew she ought to leave, now. Go to the bathroom. Wash her face. The potion and rest would heal Daphne. Besides, it was icy. She was certain it was going to start snowing right then and there. 

“Thank you,” Daphne said, setting the vial down on the bedside table. Her green pyjama bottoms hugged her thighs, and clung to her skin because of the sweat. Tracey’s stomach was in turnoil. Shivers ran down the back of her neck.

“Let me know if you need anything else, Daph,” said Tracey, hugging herself. Daphne murmured something, and looked right at her. Tracey swallowed. Even glassy, her eyes were beautiful. Tracey wanted to display them. That sounded creepy. But they were like works of art. 

“Stay,” Daphne whimpered. Tracey’s breath hitched.

“I’ll get sick,” she said, making excuses. She didn’t know why. She wanted to feel Daphne’s skin, to run her fingers through her hair, to inhale the jasmine aroma. 

“Then I’ll take care of you. Stay. Please.”

Tracey thought she might puke then and there. Somehow, she stumbled to the bed, and laid down beneath the blankets, while Daphne laid on top. They didn’t touch. She could feel the bed rise and sink as Daphne moved. Heat radiated off the other woman. Small, dark sweat stains formed her outline on the sheets. 

Daphne rolled over, and suddenly they were face-to-face. Tracey shivered. Slowly, cautiously, gently, she reached out and touched Daphne’s forehead. She was burning hot. 

“I should get you tea or something,” Tracey said. 

“Stay,” Daphne repeated. Tracey slid her wand out of her pocket and set it on the other bedside table, the unused side, the spare side. “I’m sorry about all this.”

“It’s fine,” Tracey said. It was strange, playing Healer, but comforting, too. It gave her a sort of purpose. She couldn’t wallow, because Daphne needed her. She was  _ needed.  _

“Stay,” Daphne said, and moved her hand closer. Tracey moved hers. Their fingers were barely an inch apart. It wasn’t what dormmates did, what roommates did, what respectable single pureblood girls did. They didn’t almost touch hands. Their fingers didn’t stretch for each other. Tracey didn’t dare move. Her muscles tensed. 

“I think this is helping,” Daphne said, and Tracey’s heart jumped.  _ It’s the fever _ , she told herself. 

“We can stay like this a little while,” Tracey told her. And they could have this moment, this healing. Just for a little while. 


End file.
